Courage, Dear Heart

Be not afraid, my Dove, the ancient

Has had his talons gloved, his
wingtips trimmed,

The putrid wings, with feathers
full of death.

He sits upon his perch, these
days, with rattling breath

And calls across the desert he
lately skimmed

In petulant rage. Impotent. Empty


And you, my Dove, my gentle
little one,

Hidden in the rocks for far too

Must trust your wings. Never mind
your fears

And plucked out feathers, and
rivers of dried up tears.

You may not sit and mourn. Get up!
Be strong

With wings made whole, and glide
beneath the sun.


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